


Mermaid's daydream - or a fisherman's tale

by Stevie_Foxx



Category: River Monsters RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6400285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stevie_Foxx/pseuds/Stevie_Foxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble about River Monster's silver fox of a presenter.  Don't know him, but have watched the shows and read his book.  He's damn scenic just like the show and this popped into my head.  Mr. Wade, you have my apologies; please see this as the compliment it is intended to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mermaid's daydream - or a fisherman's tale

Aaaaah, I am deep in the water. The water of this northern lake is 50F but I don't care, I am like the fresh water seals I'm frolicking with, warm and well padded. My soft milk flesh slides easily through the dark water. The white sturgeon swirl by me, urging me to follow them into the depths.   
The cold water tightens my nipples and smooths my generous belly. I kick my plump legs and the sturgeon nibble my toes with their toothless mouths, teasing me to chase the deep currents with them, to seek the sweet, soft-fleshed clams on the floor of the lake.   
As I dive down as the bubbles wriggle over my body and up between my legs, lightly brushing my pussy. I spin slowly, allowing myself to sink and feel the rush of the deep current slide around me caressing and stroking my entire body. I open my arms and legs and let myself be swirled, pin-wheeled through the waters.  
I rest a lazy arm across my sturgeon friend. She is the one who called me to this place. She was afraid. Something was searching for her. I project ease to her. But she doesn’t relax. Then I see what it might be causing her and her kind fear.  
Silvery lure and a chunk of perch; I turn and roll my eyes at my friends. The seals huddle close and rub their soft heads against my thighs. I pet them. This should be simple enough. Carefully, carefully, they bring me a rusty knife from the depths. I sever the line while holding it steady. My sturgeon brings me a long abandoned, torn leather glove. I wrap my hand in this then slowly wind the line around my hand. I allow myself to float toward a rocky pile and lock my legs around it. The cool hardness presses against my inner thighs. I gesture my friends over and they gather as I gently pull on the line. There is an answering pull. The fisherman thinks he’s got a nibble. Ha! I never just nibble. I’m a woman. I feed with gusto.   
I yank harder. The water carries the man’s excited yell.  
“Fish on!”   
I’m instantly charmed by the lilt of an English accent. The voice, despite the barked warning, is deep and smooth like butter. It rolls across my skin as it carries in the water. Like bubbles, it tickles down my back to curve under my bottom, watery fingers exploring and testing my lush body. A voice alone can bring me to sweetness, but it must be the right voice.  
I hold the line. Feeling his arms pulling, straining to land his prize. The thrill of his strength spills through me and I let go of the rock and drift upward to another rocky outcrop beneath the waves. I can see the steely bottom of the boat bobbing like a toy far above me.   
In a fit of delight I flip upside down yanking on the line. I hear the yells from above. The man and his crew can’t figure out what they’ve seen. I smirk at my wet friends. What fish looks like a bottom and spread legs coming at you from below.  
I twist again, yanking downward and catch another rock. My innocent captor is working his line carefully. I feel he is patient, waiting to coax me out into relaxation then pull hard to grasp me close, haul me into his vessel to shine in the sunlight.  
I slowly allow myself to come closer. He is not some fool young man, trolling for amusement. This is a hoary haired man, lean and strong in the silver time of his life. I see gray eyes and a wide, toothy grin. There are wrinkles of laughter on that face.   
I tug down one last time and shove myself to the surface.   
I breech the water, knocking aside his crew to land in the tarp filled bow. I lounge on my back. My long, red hair is still curly despite being soaked. My fisherman’s face lights up as his grin widens  
“Now that’s a fish!” he manages. I smile sweetly. His shirt is wrinkled and open, I see tanned skin and ropes of muscle. I reach out to grab his shirt.


End file.
